


Now you're here I can see your Light

by nutella22



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Battle, Friendship, Fête des Mousquetaires Challenge, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 12:15:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13146510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutella22/pseuds/nutella22
Summary: d'Artagnan has never been afraid of The Dark. It's the Light you have to fear. Because the enemy wants to look you in the eye when he strikes the final blow.





	Now you're here I can see your Light

**Author's Note:**

> Before we can move to the good stuff the usual blabla  
> a) Written for the December challenge of the Fete de Mousquetaires with the topic "dark".  
> b) Title shamelessly borrowed from Enya's I want Tomorrow.  
> c) There really was a battle near Tornavento in June 1636. The musketeers, though, probably weren't anywhere close by.  
> d) Usual Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine and I intend to give them back... more or less intact.  
> e) This is my very first step into the Musketeers Fandom and I hope to do it justice. Thank you KarriNeves for your input.

It's funny. Life. The way it works and flows and meanders through the various happenings that shape your memories. How it can be unsuspecting in the morning, curious at lunch and disastrous in the evening. And when night sends its tendrils of black over the land it wipes away all that was and showers the day in a new light, offering hope and the illusion of another chance. But no matter how you turn it: It ends and starts with darkness.

In this case, it all starts with a dance in the dark.

At night, the garrison is just another dark corner in Paris and some might say to call it a home is either desperate or exceptionally modest. For a few souls though it's the only refuge they've ever known.

"What are you doing, d'Artagnan?" She feels like a little girl playing hide and seek but follows her newly-wedded husband down the stairs nonetheless.

"You have to see this!" he says and drags her on, sounding like a little kid himself.

"d'Artagnan, it's freezing outside," she chides. "We're going to catch a chill."

Her half-hearted objections are being ignored by her husband and he can't suppress the smile that appears on his face when they reach muddy ground.

"What is going on? I can't even see you."

The courtyard is covered in darkness except for the torches burning next to the entrance, the door to the armory and one by the living quarters. He still has her hand in his and only when he stands in the middle of the site he stops walking and turns towards her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders to offer some protection from the freezing temperatures. Her pale face shimmers softly in the glow of the fire but not enough for d'Artagnan to discern her emotions. Paris isn't known for its cold weather. It's late October but an unusual streak of cold air has been clutching the city for a few days. It's biting and chills to the bones and he can feel the slight tremors where he rests his fingers against her back.

"You don't have to look at me. Look up."

Their faces are turned towards the sky where the clouds are concealing the stars. There's nothing up there, just a black abyss that hovers above them except for...

"What is this?" Constance breathes and squints her eyes to see better. "Is that...?" A flicker of something tiny above them sinks down towards them, illuminated in an almost orange light. At first it's just a lonely little sprinkle that floats lazily towards them but then it lands dead on target on her nose and she flinches a little. Not because because she's spooked but because the little snowflake is surprisingly cold.

"It is snow." Her pale face – only dimly recognizable in the dark – widens with a happy smile. "Look at that. It is really snow." Then a second flake comes down next them and soon it starts to snow in earnest, thick flakes twirling around them and framing their intimate dance in the dead of the night.

A silent observer who's suffering the late watch cycle snuggles deeper in his thick winter cloak and averts his eyes from the lover's scene, giving them the privacy they deserve as they sway to a tune only they can hear. Because Athos knows that these moments of unaltered happiness – no matter how dark or cold the circumstances – are precious and rare. They should enjoy them while they last, even if it means spending their last united night outside in the cold and in the dark.

Tomorrow has the chance to change their fortune.

~OoO~

June 1636, near Tornavento

They are far away from home and war has put them under the wings of tragedy as their days are stricken with the only constants left - utter boredom and death.  
d’Artagnan encountered this war with a naive ignorance that had made Athos and Porthos alternately frown with unease and smile with fond memories of their own effusive youth, their young companion always the first to face the enemy and rough up the battle like he has every intention of turning the tables in favor of his own company by being as audacious as possible. Cutting through the Spanish lines like the Devil himself and dashing his sword in dabs and circles, dancing past the mortal enemy like a wild river weaving its way past boulders and rotten trunks. It’s a strangely inspiring sight that Athos enjoys and fears in equal shares and sometimes he wonders what this will do to his young friend once the war is over and they go back to their life under the close influence of the king and the queen and such mundane tasks as parade duty and hunting parties.

Not for the first time the memory of the night out in the courtyard slips into his mind when he had watched d’Artagnan with his young wife, captured in the moment of complete content – absolute antithesis to their current situation in which peace and quietude are distant concepts. He doesn’t miss those times. Not exactly. Athos is pragmatic enough a man to not dwell on things he can not change but there’s a tiny part of him that knows that if he had the chance to perform one miracle it would be to preserve the young Gascon’s spirit and his ability to have heart and soul unisono.

“Athos?!”

Athos blinks and realizes the young man’s voice next to him is tinted with an underlying urgency that insinuates this is not the first time he spoke to raise his attention.

“Pardon me,” he replies. “I was lost in thought.”

A rustling indicates d’Artagnan is moving and Athos glances sideways trying to find his silhouette that contrasts with the dark background. He can roughly make out his young friend’s shirt and the lucid white of his eyes.

It is night time and a complete darkness envelops them as it would be unwise to start a fire that would be visible for a long way on this flat terrain which is treeless, dry and rocky. Blessedly, it’s the middle of June and the night temperatures are moderately chilly and even soothing in contrast to the day time heat, allowing the weary soldiers to breathe a little easier.

“What keeps your mind so busy that you didn’t hear me the first five times?” Athos can hear a smirk in these words.

“Memories,” Athos merely replies and slowly lies back on his hard mattress.

“Good or bad?”

Athos stays silent for a few seconds before heaving a sigh. “Why do they have to be of either kind?”

“I don't know. Aren't they?”

Athos stares up into the sky, trying to catch a glimpse of a star. Even though they spend most of their time outdoors it's rare to get a good view of the night sky. Most of the times, when they're sitting huddled around the fire at night the air above is foggy with smoke and their eyes burn with the strong fumes and when they are away from the fire it's usually for the purpose of guard duty during which staring upon the sky could have terrible repercussions. So now, of all times, there has to be a closed cloud cover, resulting in a darkness that weighs heavy against their eyes as well as their moods.

“Memories I am fond of don't have to necessarily be of a good kind. There are many things I would rather forget. That doesn't mean I would be better off without them.”

The young Gascon makes a noncommittal noise and then there is silence for a long time. When Athos is sure he has gone back to sleep d'Artagnan clears his throat softly and continues. “There are a lot of memories I'd rather forget. Most of them I have gathered within this war.”

“I can quite believe that,” Athos says and closes his eyes for a moment, envisioning d'Artagnan dance with his sword on the battlefield. “Make the best of them. Memories are the hammer and chisel shaping your character.”

“If that is so, what does this have to say about your character?”, d'Artagnan asks, cheekily, and Athos can't help it when a lopsided grin appears on his face. He's just glad d'Artagnan can't see it.

“That I'm immune to outwardly inconveniences.”

“So, this is why you drink yourself into oblivion every once in a while,” d'Artagnan's voice is a careful combination of wariness and inquisitiveness.

Athos sighs. “Thus the addition of outwardly.” Searching for the right words he ponders for a moment. “Wine is a great companion if the dark memories filter through.” He can feel his fingers tremble just a little bit at the thought of countless bottles of wine, a night off duty and his friends close by to catch him when he falls. He has every intention of returning the favor if ever there was need for it for either of his friends and something within him stirs unpleasantly, as if his very soul knows more about the things to come and wants to give fair warning. He suppresses it, unwilling to give thoughts to a future not yet certain as long as there's a change to relent.

They settle into another long silence which is only disturbed by Porthos' loud snores. The big man is lying on the other side of Athos and has the enviable ability to fall asleep the instant the back of his head touches soft ground and to only wake up when his presence is a necessity and not an inconvenience. Some paces further Athos can hear hushed murmurs of other soldiers not finding the rest needed to get over the next day. A horse whinnies, causing a few others to join in. But they calm down immediately and Athos is reassured that no immediate danger is close.

Concentrating back on the sky above he realizes with a lightened heard that the cloud cover breaks up, revealing a cloth of ink-colored fabric behind them in which the stars are embroidered like diamonds. It looks beautiful, Athos has to admit.

“I...” d'Artagnan begins but the word trails of like a cut string. “If I close my eyes just a little the stars almost look like snowflakes. Can you see it, too?” mutters d'Artagnan in a distant tune telling Athos that his young friend is only half-awake.

And there is this picture again in his head, of d'Artagnan and his beautiful wife in intimate embrace in the courtyard with only the snowflakes keeping them company. One of his good memories, indeed. He closes his eyes, holding on to it and hopes they will have the chance for another good memory – another dance in the dark.

~OoO~

The next day comes to too fast with the sun beating down on them and even before they leave camp to collect their orders the heat is aggravating. They had been camping close to the small city of Tornavento for a few days now and every day the chance of confrontation is higher. Athos almost hopes for something to happen today just to break out of the maddening stupor that seems to grasp regiments after prolonged idleness.

Unfortunately, the moment the Spanish attack from three sides though is the moment things are starting to escalate. All things considered, it really doesn't come as a surprise. They expect the attack, sure enough. Everyone always awaits an attack when in war but they still had hoped for the reinforcement to arrive before that.

The Spanish regiment breaks through their flanks in the north and takes their outpost before the sun reaches its zenith. Athos can only shake his head in frustration as he watches his countrymen flee like headless chicken and he yells, screaming for the line to be held. He can hear Porthos and d'Artagnan do the same as they advance to where the others flee from.

Sweat is running in rivulets down his back and his face. His heart is beating like war drums and he can feel its pressure reverberate within his skull. He wishes to take a swig from his water skin but ignores the need, only has eyes for the melee in front of him.

“Hold the line!” He yells at no one in particular and keeps walking, striking down a Spanish infantryman almost casually who is foolish enough to attack him straight ahead. For the one fallen man, two are waiting in line and Athos has no time to keep an eye on his surroundings as he delves into hand-to-hand combat that seems to last forever. The enemy has a never-ending source of man power and it doesn't look good. Over the screams of rage and pain there's one that stands out and Athos whirls his head to see Porthos being attacked by a man behind him whose sword cuts through his friend's side. The sound of surprise and agony almost has him disregard his own attackers until a sharp pain brings him back to his own predicament. One of his attackers had used his lack of concentration and managed a lucky strike on his thigh.

Athos risks a quick glance downwards and can see the wound isn't as bad as it feels like which only spurs his motivation into engaging harder. Diving back into fray he can only hope that Porthos isn't gravelly wounded. There isn't much he can do now, anyway. With deadly precision he makes quick process of the three Spaniards and is glad to be relatively free of danger for now. It allows him to search for Porthos and his heart cheers with delight when he finds the big man just where he had seen him last, crashing the heads of two Spanish man together with a mighty stroke of his fists. It looks almost comically and Porthos obviously has a lot of fun doing it as he grins grins broadly at the sight of the two unconscious men at his feet. Their eyes meet in silent communication and they nod.

Porthos is already looking for the next volunteers. To Athos' amusement three Spanish men in close vicinity to Porthos stumble backwards and flee.

Athos snickers and lets his gaze roam over his direct environment. Here and there combats are still being fought but it does not look like any of them need his intervention. His searching eyes wander a little to the distance and that's when he sees d'Artagnan stuck on his way to their former outpost, surrounded by the enemy. His breath is caught in his throat when he realizes there's no way to help him. Astonished, he watches as d'Artagnan lifts his sword over his head, kneels on one knee, bends his back and swirls it around in a mighty circle, catching all of his attackers in one single strike. He definitely had not taught him that move, Athos winces - half in terror, half in pride - as his own back aches in sympathy. Even from the distance he can see the fountains of blood as they shoot out of shredded throats and d'Artagnan anything but flies over the dead bodies, his destination now apparent.

Their former outpost that has been taken by the enemy stores weapons and ammunition, two things that should not under any circumstances fall into enemy hands. A crucial fact that is being drilled into every recruit and therefore a chance to take, no matter the outcome.

“Oh d'Artangnan...!” Athos mumbles in terror but his drive to assist is sabotaged by another group of Spanish men who seek his proximity in a yet unaware need to end their poor lives.

Attack and parry, stoop and turn, attack and kill. It's like a mantra, vocalized by muscle not tongue. It's easy to get lost in its simpleness and so it's not surprising when he loses sight of d'Artagnan and even forgets the significance of it until...

A tremendous blast hurls him off his feet and he can feel himself fly a few feet through the air, awaiting a painful collision with the stony underground. The sensation is being followed by a loud thunder and a blinding light that burns his eyes. When he finally meets the ground, the air is pressed out of his lungs and with a sickening crack his head collides with a boulder. The last thing Athos thinks before he lets the darkness claim him is that d'Artagnan had probably not considered the consequences of his doings. And if he has, Athos would have a serious word with him.

~oOoOo~

The process of waking up from unconsciousness is like an old acquaintance that you roll your eyes on when you meet him. So the rolling of Athos' eyes wasn't entirely attributed to the penetrating ache in his head.

“Athos!” sounds a voice from his side and a warm hand touches his shoulder. “Rise 'n shine!”

The voice, as welcome it is, doesn't ring right in Athos' ears and when the fog clears Athos remembers.

“d'Artagnan did something stupid, did he not?” he says and the slurring in his own voice – he realizes in disgust - sounds like he had at least a bottle of too much wine.

“Oi, he did,” admits Porthos and Athos finally manages to blink a little. He finds himself in the outside at night, lying next to a fire with something soft stuffed under his aching head.

“Where is he?” he groans and stems himself on his elbow, rolling to the side and trying to ignore the nausea threatening to have him back on his makeshift bed.

“We have not found him yet,” Porthos whispers and Athos whirls his head, staring at his friend. He looks awful. That's the first thing that comes to his mind when he looks at Porthos. The big man has an arm in a sling and a painful looking bruise on his temple, causing his eye to be swollen shut. “We... I looked for 'im but was a little... indisposed.” With a soft gasp he moves his injured arm. “Every man able to stand upright is looking for 'im and other survivors.”

Athos swallows and his first instinct is to jump up and search for himself but he manages to rethink the plan when his innate need to keep calm and track of all the details takes over.

“What happened?”

“The lad managed to blow up our ammunition depot. The explosion did what we couldn't. Scatter'd the Spanish and kill'd their vanguard. Enough that we could keep 'em in check until the Duke of Savoy reach'd us with the overdue cav'lry...” Porthos trails of, sounding bitter and it hurts Athos more than the pounding in his head to see the lost look in his friend's countenance. “The Spanish troops are receding. We won.” The last word is barely more than a sigh and over the general noise surrounding them Athos more guesses than actual hears him.

“This is d'Artagnan, my friend. He has more lives than a cat and now he relies on us to find him.” He wonders where the certainty comes from that colors his assertion but deep inside he knows – actually knows – that d'Artagnan is alive and waiting for them. “Help me up!” It's an order and Porthos complies though wary of Athos' ability to stay standing but even though both men are a little wobbly on their feet they manage.

Athos looks around and realizes that more wounded are lying in a circle around the fire, having their comrades attend to them. The medical tent is bustling with activity and he assumes that the seriously wounded are probably in there instead of out here. The level of noise is subdued but in the distance he can hear the yells of those trying to gain a general order and the screams of those badly wounded and dying. All of a sudden, he has to get away from this place and he starts walking, his goal distinct as the ammunition post is still burning and occasionally sending large flames into the dark sky. The air around him is heavy with the smoke and the nearer they get, the more it scratches in his throat.

It's not even a battlefield anymore. It's hell. The heat is unbearable and the former buildings and wooden tent structures are now mere skeletons. Blackened beams are lying around or are protruding from the ground which is flooded with soot and ashes and still smoldering remains of whatever had the bad luck to be caught in the explosion. Here and there small fires are flickering but mostly, Athos is unable to recognize the area.

“Dear God!” He moans , momentarily stunned by the sheer impact of what he's seeing. No one could have survived this.

No, he can't think like that. Doesn't want to. So they start searching. They're walking a few paces apart to cover more ground and they start at the center of it, where only a few hours before a building and half a dozen tents had stood. They cough and they curse. They trample out a few glowing embers which are threatening to rekindle but mostly they just wade over broken equipment and charred tarpaulins.

His eyes never stop roaming and a few times he thinks he has found him but it's mostly the terribly marred corpses of men in the tattered remains of Spanish uniforms. Stumbling over a piece of garbage he loses his footing and lands hard on his side, only to keep rolling down a steep descent. As he finally comes to a halt he stays still for a moment, feeling for new injuries but most of his uneasiness can be blamed to the rough tumble and the painful knot in his stomach that is the not knowing of what happened to d'Artagnan. Grunting, he hoists himself back up and looks around, finding himself in one of the countless trenches that scar the terrain.

A trench, he ponders with a frown and knows that if he were in a situation that would lead to a mighty explosion he would surely look for cover in a hole in the ground. And d'Artagnan would have known that too.

With renewed energy he starts walking, keeping his eyes on the ground and especially on the wall closest to the explosion. In front of him there's a half buried area where parts of a wall of one of the buildings has landed. A misshapen form that was once a window is still recognizable and Athos is now almost running.

“d'Artagnan?” he calls out, quietly at first then once more louder. “d'Artagnan, are you there?”

There's an answer, a raspy cough that makes the knot in his stomach jump in hopeful expectation.

“Porthos!” he's screaming over his shoulder whilst quickly lifting what he can from the mountain in front of him. A wooden beam, some crates and small planks and behind all that he is rewarded with a foot.

He kneels down to look through the opening he created and at first he can see nothing but two legs. It takes a few seconds for his eyes to adjust and in the darkness he can see dimly see d'Artagnan. The young Gascon is huddled in a small space big enough so he can sit with his back against the earthy wall and with his legs stretched out in front of him.

“d'Artagnan!” he calls softly. “Are you hurt?”

Athos know it's a stupid question but he can't help it. It's facts he needs, not false hope.

“What a foolish question,” answers d'Artagnan in a thin and breathless voice that reveals all Athos needs to know.

“Don't move! We are going to get you out of here.”

“Not...” another cough and soft rustling. “... going anywhere.”

d'Artagnan is alive and breathing. And he's responsive. That should count for something. But Athos has no inkling of d'Artagnan's physical condition because there obviously are injuries which have stopped d'Artagnan from getting out of here on his own.

Crawling, Athos retreats and gets back on his feet, finding Porthos bulky frame standing above him near the edge of the trench.

“He's alive.” Athos informs him and he's only just realizing how incredible it is to have found him. Alive. For a second he feels a wave of heat rise within him and when it reaches his head he sways and has to hold on to the dirty wall.

“Athos!” calls Porthos. “Hold on, 'm coming down.”

“No...” He says, yet leaning heavily against the wall to steady himself. “No, I'm fine. But we have to get him out of here.” He gestures behind his back. “Get help! Quick!”

“'e hurt?”

“What a foolish question,” Athos repeats with a sorrowful smirk but catches himself. There's no time to lose, least for petty talk. “We have to remove the rubble. I'll wait here by his side.”

“You do that,” says Porthos about to turn away. But he halts and looks at Athos, grinding out: “Make sure 'e's still there when I get back.”

“I promise.”

With that, Porthos is gone and Athos is left behind, feeling his energy dwindle. There isn't much left to do except waiting and so he goes back and manages to crawl back through the tiny opening he made. After a few groans and curses he rests next to d'Artagnan, who doesn't acknowledge him. For a moment, Athos expects the worst and is about to reach out his hand to feel for a pulse. It's to dark to see the young man's features properly as he's facing his chest. The only dim light comes from a few feet above where the air is glowing reddish due to the still raging yet luckily distant fires.

“d'Artagnan?” Athos whispers, hesitant to startle his young friend.

“Didn't move. Promise.”

“Good boy,” praises Athos and now doesn't withhold anymore. His fingers reach for d'Artagnan's arm. “Where are you hurt?”

“Right leg. Busted knee. Right shoulder. I think it's bleeding... a lot. Might have broken a rib or two. Head hurts…”

That was a lot of information and yet probably just the half of it. But it’s workable. They only just need to get him out of here. Help will be here soon. The place will be bustling with aides and d’Artagnan will be saved under the whooping and applauding of all the men still able to stand. And the doc will be there to stitch him up, no worries. He’ll be back to his dancing self in no time… 

Athos realizes he’s rambling in his own mind while forcing down the hysterical feeling of his own helplessness.

“You’ll be fine.” 

Ignorance is a bliss. 

D’Artagnan’s skin feels cold under Athos’ finger. He wishes the darkness away. Wants to see his friend’s face, the warm brown eyes and the cheeky smile.

“Thanks for finding me, Athos,” D’Artagnan rasps and he moves his head in his direction. Carefully he moves his hands over the young mans torso trying to find the most urgent injuries. If only Aramis was here. He could do this sort of thing much better than him. On the other hand he’s thankful the other man isn’t at their side to live through another Savoy.

“Don’t you worry!” Athos repeats, his finger finding something warm on d’Artagnan’s chest. Warm and sticky and when his fingers caress a little higher there’s something poking through skin and d’Artagnan hisses. It’s somewhere on the right shoulder and Athos can’t tell how deep the wound is.

“I’m glad it’s dark,” d’Artagnan mumbles and Athos wonders whether he is already delusional.

“Why?” he wants to know, hoping to get d’Artagnan to start talking. Anything to keep him from not talking anymore.

“I don’t know. It’s strange… “ he begins and heaves a sigh, trying to get air into his tortured lungs. “Never was afraid of the dark. Lot of good memories, I think…”

There’s a short pause, when d’Artagnan makes an effort to look up. From the distance Athos can hear the voices of men, coming closer. Just a few more minutes…

“You’ll be walking out of here in no time, d’Artagnan.”

D’Artagnan has managed to lift his head so he is facing the hole above them and his features are illuminated in a warm and orange glow. Athos is close enough that he can see the glowing embers of ashes being mirrored in the man’s eyes. For just a moment they look just like snowflakes floating and d’Artagnan smiles cheerfully.

“Walking? If you want me to I can dance…”


End file.
